It has been nearly two weeks since my arrival in London. Still, it feels like a haze, this time is so varied and vulgar since the last time I walked the earth. Everything seems to move so slowly, as though my mind is always making double time on my surroundings.

Francesco's musings on this matter seemed absolute before I left dear Genoa. The haze would pass with time. There feels so much less to latch onto and savour in this age. Immortals and mortals alike are buried within technology and statistics within that medium. A friend sent me a contraption called a "cellular phone". It was awful. The cursed thing is as much a tool of communication as it is a possessed bird. Setting itself to cry out and murmur when I try to rest. The damn thing found itself in a sewer grate, still, the mortals pour themselves into these tiny glowing lights. If anything their obsession with these glowing mirrors it makes hunting an ease.